She is below the age — not yet fifteen.
COLLECTOR.
You would evade the tax. —
TYLER.
Sir Officer,
I have paid you fairly what the law demands.
(Alice and her Mother enter the Shop. The Tax-gathers go to her. One of them lays hold of her. She screams. TYLER goes in.)
COLLECTOR.
You say she’s under age.
(ALICE screams again. TYLER knocks out the Tax-gatherer’s Brains. His Companions fly.
PIERS.
A just revenge.
TYLER.
Most just indeed; but in the eye of the law
’Tis murder — and the murderer’s lot is mine.
(PIERS goes out.)
(TYLER sits down mournfully. )
ALICE.
Fly, my dear father! let us leave this place
Before they raise pursuit.
TYLER.
Nay, nay, my child,
Flight would be useless — I have done my duty;
I have punish’d the brute insolence of lust,
And here will wait my doom.
WIFE.
Oh let us fly!
My husband, my dear husband!
ALICE.
Quit but this place,
And we may yet be safe, and happy too.
TYLER.
It would be useless, Alice—’twould but lengthen
A wretched life in fear.
(Cry without. )
Liberty! liberty!
(Enter Mob , HOB CARTER, &c.)
(Cry ) Liberty! liberty! — No Poll tax! — No War!
HOB.
We have broke our chains — we will arise in anger —
The mighty multitude shall trample down
The handful that oppress them.
TYLER
Have ye heard
So soon then of my murder?
HOB
Of your vengeance.
Piers ran throughout the village — told the news —
Cried out, to arms! — arm, arm for Liberty!
For Liberty and Justice!
TYLER
My good friends,
Heed well your danger, or be resolute;
Learn to laugh menaces and force to scorn,
Or leave me. I dare answer the bold deed —
Death must come once; return you to your homes,
Protect my wife and child, and on my grave
Write why I died; perhaps the time may come,
When honest Justice shall applaud the deed.
HOB
Nay, nay, — we are oppressed, and have too long
Knelt at our proud lords’ feet — we have too long
Obey’d their orders — bow’d to their caprices —
Sweated for them the wearying summer’s day,
Wasted for them the wages of our toil;
Fought for them, conquer’d for them, bled for them
Still to be trampled on and still despis’d;
But we have broke our chains.
TOM MILLER.
Piers is gone on
Thro’ all the neighbouring villages, to spread
The glorious tidings.
HOB
He is hurried on
To Maidstone, to deliver good John Ball,
Our friend, our shepherd.
(Mob increases.)
TYLER
Friends and Countrymen,
Will ye then rise to save an honest man
From the fierce clutches of the bloody law?
Oh do not call to mind my private wrongs,
That the state drain’d my hard-earned pittance from me;
That, of his office proud, the foul Collector
Durst with lewd hand seize on my darling child,
Insult her maiden modesty, and force
A father’s hand to vengeance; heed not this:
Think not, my countrymen, on private wrongs,
Remember what yourselves have long endured.
Think of the insults, wrongs, and contumelies,
Ye bear from your proud lords — that your hard toil
Manures their fertile fields — you plow the earth,
You sow the corn, you reap the ripen’d harvest, —
They riot on the produce! — That, like beasts,
They sell you with their land — claim all the fruits
Which the kindly earth produces as their own.
The privilege, forsooth, of noble birth!
On, on to Freedom; feel but your own strength,
Be but resolved, and these destructive tyrants
Shall shrink before your vengeance.
HOB
On to London —
The tidings fly before us — the court trembles —
Liberty! — Vengeance! — Justice!
END OF THE FIRST ACT
Wat Tyler - Act II
SCENE — BLACKHEATH.
TYLER, HOB, &c.
SONG.
‘ When Adam delv’d, and Eve span,
‘ Who was then the gentleman?’
Wretched is the infant’s lot,
Born within the straw-roof’d cot!
Be he generous, wise, or brave,
He must only be a slave.
Long, long labour, little rest,
Still to toil to be oppress’d;
Drain’d by taxes of his store,
Punish’d next for being poor;
This is the poor wretch’s lot,
Born within the straw-roof’d cot.
While the peasant works — to sleep;
What the peasant sows — to reap;
On the couch of ease to lie,
Rioting in revelry;
Be he villain, be he fool,
Still to hold despotic rule,
Trampling on his slaves with scorn;
This is to be nobly born.
‘ When Adam delv’d, and Eve span,
‘ Who was then the gentleman?’
JACK STRAW.
The mob are up in London — the proud courtiers
Begin to tremble.
TOM MILLER.
Aye, aye, ’tis time to tremble;
Who’ll plow their fields, who’ll do their drudgery now?
And work like horses, to give them the harvest?
JACK STRAW.
I only wonder we lay quiet so long.
We had always the same strength, and we deserved
The ills we met with for not using it.
HOB.
Why do we fear those animals called lords?
What is there in the name to frighten us?
Is not my arm as mighty as a Baron’s?
Enter PIERS and JOHN BALL.
PIERS (to TYLER).
Have I done well, my father? — I remember’d
This good man lay in prison.
TYLER.
My dear child,
Most well; the people rise for liberty,
And their first deed should be to break the chains
That bind the virtuous: — O thou honest priest —
How much has thou endured!
JOHN BALL.
Why aye, my friend!
These squalid rags bespeak what I have suffered.
I was revil’d — insulted — left to languish
In a damp dungeon; but I bore it cheerily —
My heart was glad — for I have done my duty.
I pitied my oppressors, and I sorrowed
For the poor men of England.
TYLER.
They have felt
Their strength — look round this heath! ’tis thronged with men.
Ardent for freedom; mighty is the event
That waits their fortune.
JOHN BALL.
I would fain address them.
TYLER.
Do so, my friend, and teach to them their duty;
Remind them of their long withholden rights.
What ho there! sil
ence!
PIERS.
Silence there, my friends,
This good man would address you.
HOB.
Aye, aye, hear him —
He is no mealy mouthed court orator,
To flatter vice, and pamper lordly pride.
JOHN BALL.
Friends! Brethren! for ye are my brethren all;
Englishmen met in arms to advocate
The cause of freedom! hear me! pause awhile
In the career of vengeance; it is true
I am a priest; but, as these rags may speak,
Not one who riots in the poor man’s spoil,
Or trades with his religion. I am one
Who preach the law of Christ, and in my life,
Would practice what he taught. The son of God
Came not to you in power: humble in mien,
Lowly in heart, the man of Nazareth
Preach’d mercy, justice, love: ‘Woe unto ye,
Ye that are rich: — if that ye would be saved,
Sell that ye have, and give unto the poor.’
So taught the Saviour: oh, my honest friends!
Have ye not felt the strong indignant throb
Of justice in your bosoms, to behold
The lordly Baron feasting on your spoils?
Have you not in your hearts arraign’d the lot
That gave him on the couch of luxury
To pillow his head, and pass the festive day
In sportive feasts, and ease, and revelry?
Have you not often in your conscience ask’d
Why is the difference, wherefore should that man,
No worthier than myself, thus lord it over me,
And bid me labour, and enjoy the fruits?
The God within your breasts has argued thus!
The voice of truth has murmur’d; came ye not
As helpless to the world? Shines not the sun
With equal ray on both? — Do ye not feel
The self same winds of heaven as keenly parch ye?
Abundant is the earth — the Sire of all,
Saw and pronounc’d that it was very good.
Look round: the vernal fields smile with new flowers,
The budding orchard perfumes the soft breeze,
And the green corn waves to the passing gale.
There is enough for all, but your proud Baron
Stands up, and arrogant of strength exclaims,
‘I am a Lord — by nature I am noble:
These fields are mine, for I was born to them,
I was born in the castle — you, poor wretches,
Whelp’d in the cottage, are by birth my slaves.’
Almighty God! such blasphemies are utter’d!
Almighty God! such blasphemies believ’d!
TOM MILLER.
This is something like a sermon.
JACK STRAW.
Where’s the bishop
Would tell you truths like these?
HOB.
There was never a bishop among all the apostles.
JOHN BALL.
My brethren!
PIERS.
Silence, the good priest speaks.
JOHN BALL.
My brethren, these are truths, and weighty ones:
Ye are all equal: nature made ye so.
Equality is your birth-right; — when I gaze
On the proud palace, and behold one man
In the blood-purpled robes of royalty,
Feasting at ease, and lording over millions,
Then turn me to the hut of poverty,
And see the wretched lab’rer worn with toil,
Divide his scanty morsel with his infants,
I sicken, and indignant at the sight,
‘ Blush for the patience of humanity.’
JACK STRAW.
We will assert our rights.
TOM MILLER.
We’ll trample down
These insolent oppressors.
JOHN BALL.
In good truth
Ye have cause for anger: but, my honest friends,
Is it revenge or justice that ye seek?
MOB.
Justice, justice!
JOHN BALL.
Oh then remember mercy;
And though your proud oppressors spar’d not you,
Shew you excel them in humanity.
They will use every art to disunite you,
To conquer separately, by stratagem,
Whom in a mass they fear — but be ye firm —
Boldly demand your long-forgotten rights,
Your sacred, your inalienable freedom —
Be bold — be resolute — be merciful!
And while you spurn the hated name of slaves,
Shew you are men!
MOB.
Long live our honest priest!
JACK STRAW.
He shall be made archbishop.
JOHN BALL.
My brethren, I am plain John Ball, your friend,
Your equal: by the law of Christ enjoined
To serve you, not command.
JACK STRAW.
March we for London.
TYLER.
Mark me, my friends — we rise for liberty —
Justice shall be our guide: let no man dare
To plunder in the tumult.
MOB
Lead us on —
Liberty! — Justice!
(Exeunt, with cries of Liberty — no Poll Tax — no War.)
SCENE CHANGES TO THE TOWER.
KING RICHARD, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY,
SIR JOHN TRESILIAN,
WALWORTH, PHILPOT.
KING
What must we do? the danger grows more imminent —
The mob increases —
PHILPOT.
Every moment brings
Fresh tidings of our peril.
KING.
It were well
To yield them what they ask.
ARCHBISHOP.
Aye, that my liege
Were politic. Go boldly forth to meet them,
Grant all they ask — however wild and ruinous —
Mean time the troops you have already summoned,
Will gather round them. Then my Christian power
Absolves you of your promise.
WALWORTH.
Were but their ringleaders cut off — the rabble
Would soon disperse.
PHILPOT.
United in a mass
There’s nothing can resist them — once divide them,
And they will fall an easy sacrifice.
ARCHBISHOP.
Lull them by promises — bespeak them fair —
Go forth, my liege — spare not, if need requires,
A solemn oath, to ratify the treaty.
KING
I dread their fury.
ARCHBISHOP.
’Tis a needless dread,
There is divinity about your person;
It is the sacred privilege of Kings,
Howe’er they act, to render no account
To man. The people have been taught this lesson,
Nor can they soon forget it.
KING.
I will go —
I will submit to everything they ask;
My day of triumph will arrive at last.
(Shouts without.)
Enter Messenger.
MESSENGER.
The mob are at the city gates.
ARCHBISHOP.
Haste, haste,
Address them ere too late. I’ll remain here,
For they detest me much.
(Shouts again. )
Enter another Messenger.
MESSENGER.
The Londoners have opened the city gates,
The rebels are admitted.
KING.
Fear then must give me courage; my Lord Mayor,
Come you with me.
(Exeunt. Shouts without.)
<
br /> SCENE — SMITHFIELD.
WAT TYLER, JOHN BALL, PIERS, &c. Mob.
PIERS.
So far triumphant are we: how these nobles,
These petty tyrants, who so long oppress’d us,
Shrink at the first resistance!
HOB.
They were powerful
Only because we fondly thought them so.
Where is Jack Straw?
TYLER.
Jack Straw is gone to the tower
To seize the king, and so to end resistance.
JOHN BALL.
It was well judg’d: fain would I spare the shedding
Of human blood: gain we that royal puppet,
And all will follow fairly: depriv’d of him,
The nobles lose their pretext, nor will dare
Rebel against the people’s majesty.
Enter Herald.
HERALD.
Richard the Second, by the grace of God,
Of England, Ireland, France, and Scotland, King,
And of the town of Berwick upon Tweed,
Would parley with Wat Tyler.
TYLER.
Let him know
Wat Tyler is in Smithfield.
(Exit Herald.)
I will parley
With this young monarch; as he comes to me
Trusting my honour, on your lives I charge you
Let none attempt to harm him.
JOHN BALL
The faith of courts
Is but a weak dependence! You are honest —
And better is it even to die the victim
Of credulous honesty, than live preserved
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 25